Today I went to the pawn unit to see if there were any records of the stolen items being sold or pawned. Since it has been almost 30 days since the burglary I had a bit of a time crunch because secondhand shops are only required to hold items for 30 days. So after a long day at the end of a long week, I left work early to head over to Tremont St.

The had told me on the phone that they were at 1199 Tremont St, near the Reggie Lewis Center. It occurred to me on the way over there that they were probably in the Boston Police Headquarters, but naturally there weren’t any numbers on the buildings so I drove up and down the street a few times, then found a spot, passed through the metal detectors and asked if I was in the right place. Lucky for me I was.

Everyone in licensing was very pleasant, and they sat me down in a comfortable chair with piles and piles of records starting with 9/27. I pulled out my list of stolen pieces, lowered the chair so that my feet touched the floor, and started skimming. The experience was just about as miserable as I had expected (think Erin Brockovich at the water board, minus the sycophant in the plaid pants). In addition to the charts and descriptions swimming in front of my eyes, a woman was trying to change the life of one of the officers with a nearby cubicle (“you should come to church! you should eat fruit! you should pack a lunch!”). As all of my senses reached a breaking point, my neck started to hurt from hovering over the sheets of records.

There were a few redeeming moments. None of them involved finding any of my lost things, but there were some wild items listed. Some were amusing in themselves- a Patriots helmet gold necklace for instance – and some were purely the result of transcription. These included a Hairing Bone chain, a Cladder ring, and a Bango bracelet.

Lest you think my experience was all mocking superiority and bad posture, I will add that I got a little emotional when I got deep into October’s records and accepted that nothing was going to show up. I had been trying so hard to remember my jewelry in order to describe it, and the pieces were all very present in my mind. Letting them go again this afternoon I found myself crying over those long sheets of white paper, wondering if it would be better to catch the tears in my glasses or let them drip onto the BPD’s records.

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  1. Pingback: Laughter as a sign of hope | Felice mi fa

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